Disclaimer: I'm not responsible for this. YOU'RE responsible for this. Shut up.
The Story of Merit
"Sir, are you quite sure this is the most effective method of transportation?" inquired Wormtail, a crease forming on his forehead.
Voldemort waved a pasty-white hand at his acolyte in a rather dismissive manner. "Obviously. No one would ever expect me to arrive via potholder. Have you ever heard of a Dark Lord announcing his return from the grave with a potholder?" When Voldemort noticed how Wormtail's constipated expression persisted, he scowled and folded his arms, hunching over in his leather armchair. "I don't think you appreciate how much pressure I'm under to be original."
Wormtail paled. "No, my Lord! In this day and age, it's nearly impossible for anyone to individualize their entrances – especially Dark Lords!" He finished with a small "eep."
Voldemort stomped, a little red in his usually-chalk-white face. "Then go get the Merlin-damned potholder, Wormtail."
Wormtail wept a bit but scuttled out of the office to fetch the appropriate item. Blood was spilled and women and children were scarred for life, but after an hour, he returned with Voldemort's desired potholder.
"Excellent," cried Voldemort, cackling as all vile villains are obligated to. He clapped his hands and stamped his feet and whipped out his wand to portkey-ify the potholder. Wormtail, by this point, was far too traumatized to be trusted casting spells, so Voldemort reluctantly did so himself.
Soon, it was time to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic via magical potholder. With a condescending sneer to Wormtail, Voldemort activated the portkey and was off.
There was the typical sensation of belly-button-pulling and tube-squeezing, reminding Voldemort bitterly of his birth, but the next moment it was over and he was in the Ministry. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of the aforementioned vaginal flashbacks, Voldemort regained his bearings. He could hear someone's shoes squeaking behind him, and from this he concluded that Harry Potter must have come to face him like a man.
What a foolish man, though!
The squeaking of shoes against the floor stopped, replaced by the squeaking of an adolescent boy.
"Harry Potter!" boomed Voldemort, whirling around and using dark magic special effects to make his robes billow in an appropriately-dramatic manner. The force of the dark magic special effects also caused the potholder to blow away, presumably smacking Harry Potter in the face and knocking him over. "It seems that the Boy-Who-Lived shall, on this day, become the Boy-Who- Longbottom?"
Before him, Neville Longbottom laid sprawled on the floor, ghostly-pale in fear, potholder in hand.
Well, crap. Voldemort wasn't too great at improv. But what must be done, must be done.
"Neville Longbottom," he hissed, making himself look as imposing as possible. He'd seen Snape loom over men whole heads taller than him, and had instantly admired his spy's abilities. Voldemort had tried to mimic Snape's technique, but he was also too awkward to ask for pointers outright. As such, he'd yet to perfect the art.
He did know enough to make Neville wet himself, though.
"And what brings the Discarded One to Lord Voldemort tonight?" inquired Voldemort, glaring at the boy.
Neville looked as if he were about to faint, yet somehow scrambled to his feet. Still pale and shaking, though. Voldemort tried to exude more power.
"I-I haven't come to y-y-you, you-" Neville seemed to be about to insult Voldemort – to his face! – but bit his tongue like the slug he was.
"Typical," sneered Voldemort, deciding that Neville wasn't even worth getting his wand out for. He began to evilly meander towards wherever his Harry-senses directed him. "You are a coward like your parents before you, Longbottom." He hissed these words into Neville's ear, like a creep, as he passed him, not expecting any adverse reactions.
But you know, Voldemort rarely expects what actually happens.
Like how he never thought anyone would expect him to arrive at the Ministry via potholder, Voldemort never expected to have someone try and choke him to death with a potholder.
Neville wanted blood. And by wizard-God, he would get blood – no matter what household object he had to use to get it. A vase would have been ideal, as they were great for bludgeoning, but he could work with a potholder.
Voldemort gagged as Neville dragged him to the ground. "Let's fight, asshole!" screamed Neville, tightening the potholder around Voldemort's neck, wringing it taut over his windpipe.
Voldemort responded with some trashing and strangled cries that sounded sorta like "aacht gacht auchkt auchkt" and might have been meant to mean, "Release me you pot-bellied blood-traitor!" Although, it was just as likely that it meant, "I wish I'd watched more Martha Stewart!" It's hard to tell what people are saying through potholders, I'll have you know.
Somehow, someway, Voldemort wriggled out of Neville's grasp, and scampered back as quickly as his spidery limbs would carry him.
However, something deep in Neville's gut had been reawakened – fire, bloodlust, the need for death, for dominance, a primal desire to kill – and it demanded satisfaction. He lunged at Voldemort, pounced on him, and beat him in the bald head with the potholder.
"What – did – you – say – 'bout – my – parents?!" screeched Neville, punctuating each word with a smack to Voldemort's glowing, pristine-white skull. Neville, quite honestly, knew precisely what Voldemort had said, but wasn't terribly creative and needed something to yell whilst beating the Dark Lord with his own potholder.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, let me go!" shrieked Voldemort, crying fat, salty tears.
Neville's arm froze mid-beating, his heart lurching at the sight of poor, tearful Voldemort below him. "Oh, butterscotch – I'm sorry, Voldemort. Please don't cry!" pleaded Neville, tossing his weapon aside and pulling Voldemort into a hug. "I'm really sorry, I'm so sorry. Gosh, I've never made anyone cry befo-"
"Psyche!"
Voldemort punched Neville in the stomach and hopped up, standing proud. "Haha! What a plot twist!" He smirked down at Neville, poor, bewildered Neville. "I was just acting! I do not know if you know this, but I am actually really great at improv!"
This was, of course, a lie. Neville had actually been pretty ruthless with that potholder, and as mentioned earlier, Voldemort wasn't too great at improv. Neville didn't need to know that, though.
"And now that I know all your dark secrets, I'm going to go home and post them anonymously on the internet in the form of sub-par tumblr shitposts!" declared Voldemort, before giving a robust, evil laugh. He then lunged at the potholder and hastily activated it, portkeying back to Malfoy Manor, and away from Neville's insatiable wrath.
"Oh, the horror!" cried Neville, falling to his knees and weeping, having not realized that Voldemort didn't actually know any of his numerous and plentiful dark, sexual secrets.
And so, Voldemort's official return was delayed another four years, as no one in the Ministry had spotted him that day except Neville – who did his best not to mention the event to anyone, ever, lest he accidentally spill any of his numerous and plentiful dark, sexual secrets.
The end, and also fuck you.